


Cherished

by halotolerant



Category: Tintin
Genre: Backstory, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"With the sun behind him, it’s hard to see the Captain’s face as he leans over him, but Tintin knows the expression off by heart."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherished

**Author's Note:**

> Tintin backstory is perhaps the biggest most difficult gap in any canon to fill. Here's a first stab.

The day is warm, the last curtain-call of summer, the sun thick and hot in the blue sky, the meadow starting to be speckled with fallen leaves.

Down near the curve in the river that meanders across the Marlinspike estate, they’ve laid out the picnic rug and consumed a few sandwiches, a bottle of lemonade and one (just the one) of beer and made tea from a thermos that tastes plastic and strange and perfect in the fresh air.

Now Tintin is lying down, soaking in the sunshine, watching Snowy chase butterflies across the grass, feeling the coarse weave of the rug beneath his fingertips and the pleasant fullness in his belly.

Moments like this; safety, relaxation, warmth, satiation, he has known them little enough that he treasures them.

Lying as he is on his side, he can’t see the Captain, only hear him sighing and mumbling as he reads the daily papers, the crinkle as he turns the page. All of the world out there, all the mess and petty stupid ugliness of it raging on.

He idly tears up blades of grass, letting them fall again to the ground. He can’t fix everything, and he doesn’t have to. Took a long, long time to understand that.

“Alright there, lad?”

The Captain’s hand is a gentle pressure on his shoulder and Tintin rolls onto his back to look up at him.

With the sun behind him, it’s hard to see the Captain’s face as he leans over him, but Tintin knows the expression off by heart.

Lifting one hand, he reaches to the back of Haddock’s neck and pulls him slowly down towards him until their mouths meet, hot and wet and beer and lemonade together.

So daring, he always feels, doing this. So unbelievable, that he can, that this is allowed, that this is wanted.

That he is _wanted_.

He moves to pull the Captain more fully on top of him, starting to ache in his skin – all over his skin, no one ever mentioned it could feel that way – eager for contact.

But with a murmur of pleasure, Haddock breaks the kiss, drawing back, studying him, frowning.

“Tell me, Tintin.”

His eyes are so kind. That, Tintin knows he saw from the start, the first time they met, even with the mess the man was at the time, the goodness shone clear through out of him like it couldn’t be held back.

He could have been content with friendship, he could have managed it - he barely knew, after all, what more there was. He remembers visiting Marlinspike when he still lived in Labrador Road, counting down the days until the trip, spending the train journey feeling more and more excited, finally seeing Haddock and wanting to hug him, delighting in every moment of his attention. Then leaving, finally, as the end of the day came, and turning in the driveway, seeing the lights go on and the shutters close and Haddock retreat into his home. Wanting things he didn’t understand. Not knowing why he felt so cold, so sad to be going.

But, thank-god, Haddock had known, Haddock had known what this feeling was about, had got them both here. Brave – oh what it must have cost him, Tintin can only imagine, to be the first one to ask.

And now Haddock knows him better than anyone ever has, in ways no one else has ever tried; not just the intimacy, for all Tintin treasures it, but the way he understands that Tintin isn’t invulnerable.

“Tell me, Tintin.”

Tintin rolls away again, not wanting... it’s a lovely day, a lovely moment, he doesn’t want to...

He doesn’t want to be something sad.

Haddock lies down alongside him, all along touching, one warm curve. “Tintin, it’s alright.”

Tintin’s shaking, it’s unforgiveable, he never... he’s brave... this isn’t good enough...

Lips to the back of his neck, gentle kisses, arms around him.

“I was just thinking...” Tintin begins, thinking to be casual, to brush it away, but somewhere a sob rises, and he grimaces with it, he doesn’t know how or why - he hasn’t cried in years, he never cries, not like this, not weeping.

Haddock’s a solid strength against him, and he fights to be free but is afraid of being let go, and Haddock seems to know and holds on through it, rocking him.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is.”

“It’s nothing. It’s not worth it.”

“If it upsets you, I want to know.” Haddock’s breath is warm against his ear, and smells like one savoured beer and pipe smoke and long nights and home. “Tell me.”

Tintin wipes at the tears with the back of his hand.

“She told me, if I was going to cry, she didn’t want me in the house.”

Haddock stills next to him, waiting. Tintin can’t think how to put it, can’t...

“Your mother?”

Tintin turns over, suddenly desperate to be held, pressing his face into the Captain’s shoulder. He’s wrestled back control of his voice; it just sounds broken, like he’s been screaming. “It was a horrible house anyway, a tall, thin terrace in Brussels with nothing you were allowed to touch in case it broke. When my father died in the Great War, she put his things away, all the treasures, the shells and the fossils and the little carvings. Ivory, from the Congo, tiny little gods with their tongues out.”

Haddock’s hand is strong against his back, stroking slow and even, but Tintin can feel the tension in his body – shocked or simply amazed? They’ve never talked about this. Tintin has _never_ , ever talked about this.

“And she said if I was going to cry, she didn’t want me about the place, so there was school after that, just the school. She said to come back when I’d done something worthwhile for a change. I was eight.”

He takes a deep breath. Funny how clear it feels, saying it for the first time. And how small – awful, but small and distant, a terrible thing to happen, but did it happen to him?

“The monks at the school were good men, they inspired me to go and try my best, taught me that I was worth something, I went out and started work, I kept thinking...”

Another breath. He’s calmer now, a dead weight on Haddock’s chest, letting the rise and fall of Haddock’s breathing move him, feeling the heartbeat under his ear slow down with his own.

“She married again, and on their honeymoon the ship foundered and she died. I went back to clear her things, there wasn’t anything I was interested in, but no one else could do it. Her terrier, Jessie, was still in the place, and while my mother had been away she’d got out and had a litter of puppies by no-one-knew what street dog. I took the smallest one away with me.”

As if by sixth sense, Snowy has run over to them now, a worried whine in the back of his throat, nuzzling Tintin’s face with a cold nose.

“Hey, boy, don’t worry, I’m alright.” Tintin sits up, wipes his eyes and rubs his dog’s head. He remembers sitting in his chair in the flat, the little puppy on his lap probably wondering for a while where it's mother had gone before deciding to stick to Tintin forever instead and lavish on him every last bit of doggy devotion.

Behind him, Haddock rises also, bringing his arms round him, not hugging quite, just keeping one arm each side of him, reaching to help pet Snowy, who wriggles happily.

Twisting his neck, Tintin leans back for a kiss and gets one full of warmth and tenderness and – at that angle – quite a lot of beard.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asks softly, when they pause. His skin is aching again, aching and more desperate than he can account for and even though he understands now what this longing is for, it makes it no easier to control.

Haddock smiles at him. “If you want to.”

They stand to pack the basket, roll up the rug, perhaps a little clumsier than sometimes with each time their eyes meet and the thought of what is about to happen flashes between them.

Just as they’re about to head for the Hall, Tintin pauses, and Haddock looks at him, curious no doubt as to why his face has become serious again.

“Marlinspike, it’s the first home... I mean...” Tintin blushes and stops, determined to get this out, or at least as best he can. “I mean I love living here. I love Marlinspike.”

It’s stupid to do this standing in a field with both his arms full of picnic equipment and barely able to be coherent, but it’s spilling out of him now and he wants to take the moment before his self-consciousness can assert itself.

Haddock gazes at him for a moment, then grunts. “Blistering barnacles, I love it too, but damn if I can manage to get back to it just now.”

And with a sudden movement Tintin finds himself back on the rug, back on the ground, Haddock’s mouth at his mouth, then his neck and then lower and Tintin lies back in the sunshine and gets every last thing he needs.


End file.
